by Jill Barnett
He liked and respected the men he worked with. They’d fought together, slipped past the enemy’s lines, and drank together at the local pubs. They had invited him along with them this weekend, but Red felt out of place without a date and decided to put his leave to good use.
The train pulled into the station. The engine was one of those old locomotives with a cow-catcher that the U.S. had sent to England at the outset of the war. It was a strange sight to him, the lush peaceful English countryside, spotted with silver barrage balloons—miniature Hindenburgs—and a train engine that looked like it came out of the Great Train Robbery.
He disembarked and walked around the station, then down the dirt road, where he hitched a ride on a hay wagon to Branton Manor, the housing quarters for the No. 2 Ferry Pool. The wagon was driven by two Land Girls in their knickers and headscarves, who liked the looks of his uniform and decorations, gave him an apple, and cheerfully flirted with him. They dropped him off near the gates, where he showed his ID, then walked up the long gravel drive to the huge front doors.
He rang the bell.
A pretty blond British woman in a flight suit opened the door.
“Is Charlotte Morrison here?”
“Charley?” She smiled. “Come in. Please. You may wait for her in here. Have a seat. I know she was here earlier.” She left the room.
He stood there, his hat in his hands.
“Tell Charley someone’s waiting for her downstairs!” he heard the blonde tell someone on the stairs.
He walked over to the fireplace. There was a mirror over the mantel, and he looked in it, stuck his hat under his arm, licked his hand, and slicked back his hair.
A minute later someone came running down the stairs. He turned when he heard the quick tapping of a woman’s heels on the marble of the entry.
“You’re early, you cad! Don’t you know—” Charley stopped speaking the moment she saw him. “Red?” She hesitated, the skirt of her dress floating softly around her legs.
He took it all in, all that beautiful woman.
“Red!” She crossed the room, holding her hands out to him. “It’s you!
He laughed, taking her hands. “Yes, Charley-girl. It’s me.”
“Red. I can’t believe it.” She stepped back, still holding on to him, and continued to stare at him, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised to see you. Come, sit down.” She pulled him over to a small sofa. “When did you get here? What’s going on with you? Where are you stationed? Look at you,” she rattled on, then sat back. “My God . . . that’s a DFC pinned to your jacket. You’re a war hero! For pete sakes, why didn’t you write? Tell me everything.”
“I thought if you’re free, I’d fill you in during dinner. You owe me a date. Although the chances of us finding barbeque are not likely.”
Her smile froze, then melted away. “I can’t, Red.”
“Okay. Another night. I know I just showed up without any notice. I’m sorry, but—”
She held up her hand and shook her head. “It’s not that. Who at this time in the world makes plans?”
“Maybe next week then.”
“Red.” She took a deep breath and stared at him with a pained look that made his gut turn over. “I can’t see you. I mean, I can’t date you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“I guess you don’t have to say anything, Charley. You just said it all.”
She put her hand on his arm.
He looked down at her hand. Her nails were painted red to match the dress. He glanced up. He hated the pity he saw in her expression. It made him feel foolish and out of place. His dreams, well, they weren’t hers.
She took his hand. “Red . . . We missed what might have been. With the war. The ATA. Things changed. Everything is so different. Everything changes so fast.”
He stared down at their hands. She was still holding his, and it felt and looked too big, especially next to hers.
“I’ve met a man, and I’m just nuts about him.”
He could only look at the face he saw every night when he closed his eyes and at the same time listen to the words from her that broke his heart.
She watched him so intently.
“Lucky guy.” He gave a short laugh and tried to smile.
The door chimed loudly, and they both turned as someone ran down the stairs and opened the front door. A tall, distinguished, older man stepped into the foyer.
“Charley?”
“Pop!” Charley stood and ran to him. He had gray hair and a familiar square jaw and a broad, easy smile. He hugged her. She turned and pulled him over toward Red. “Pop, this is my friend Red Walker.”
He held out his hand. “Hello, young man.”
“Mr. Morrison.” Red shook his hand.
“It’s good to finally meet you. I heard you taught my daughter a thing or two about tornadoes.”
“Yes, sir. I believe she was about to fly into one.”
Charley laughed. “I was not. I was aiming for your gas pumps, and you know it.”
Red could tell she was nervous. “I’ve been trying to get her to admit that for the longest time.”
“She doesn’t admit she’s wrong.”
“You two can stop talking about me as if I’m not here.”
“Who’s not here?” Skip came walking into the room. Cassidy was right on his heels with a beautiful woman, pin-up material, with fine features, coal-black hair and pale blue eyes.
Red straightened and saluted him. “Commander.” Then Cassidy. “Colonel.”
“Walker?” Inskip frowned.
“Hey there, Red,” Cassidy said. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re old friends,” Charley said nervously, then she moved toward Skip and took his arm. “How do you all know each other?”
With a feeling of dread Red saw plainly the gist of things, even before Skip put his arm around Charley and gave her a kiss. The breath Red took felt airless. He tried to keep his expression blank. He had no idea if he was successful.
“We work together.” Inskip was eyeing him differently. He didn’t let go of her.
“Captain Red Walker. This is my wife, Kitty.”
“Ma’am,” Red, said stiffly. He didn’t mean to sound so sharp.
Kitty Cassidy held out her hand, but looked right past him with those light, unseeing eyes. “Captain. J.R. has told me all about you. I understand you are quite the marksman.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Red took her hand. She was blind. He’d had no idea. Cassidy never said a word.
“The team sharpshooter? That’s you?” Charley looked from Skip to Red. “Oh, my God.” She faced him. “I never knew you could shoot.”
Red shrugged. “Most Texans can shoot.”
She looked at his DFC medal and the other badges on his uniform, then up at his face. He could see she didn’t know what to say, and Inskip was all too quiet. The room was quiet. Red had made the mistake of telling Skip there was a special girl he wanted to track down this weekend.
“Well,” he said, spinning his hat in his hands. “I should be leaving. Charley.” He nodded in her direction. “It was good to see you again.” He turned. “Mr. Morrison.”
“Captain.”
“Commander.” Red nodded at Skip and to the other couple. “Colonel. Mrs. Cassidy. It was good to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Kitty said quietly. “You stay at J.R.’s back, will you? I want my husband to come home when this is all over.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Red headed for the door.
“Red, wait. Please.” Charley reached out to him.
Red stopped, even though he wanted out of there. Fast. But he couldn’t ignore her, and turned.
She stepped away from Skip and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too.” Red left, and put his hat on his head as he walked down the front steps, heading for someplace, anyplace as long as it was away from there.
He walked down the drive wit
hout looking back. His shoes crunched on the gravel. Crunch, crunch, crunch, like bones cracking in two. Or maybe it was his heart. He was angry . . . at himself. He wanted to hit something. He just walked on, past the gates, down the road.
A few minutes later the car that had been parked in front of the manor came through the gates. He stopped and watched it drive off in the opposite direction.
He was hurting so deep inside it was as if he had an open wound in a place no one could find to heal. He knew this feeling. He remembered standing under that Texaco star and watching a Ford V8 disappear down a lonely Texas road.
He stood there for a long time. He didn’t know how long. When he turned to walk on, he looked up. The sky was gray and cloudy; that English mist was slowly rolling in. He stared down as he walked. The green grass was damp. The soil was dark, but the ground of the road was solid.
He needed to remember to keep his feet there.
He walked for miles, then, unaware of time passing. The thick mist moved in completely and crawled across the ground in front of him. It was white and eerie. He kept walking until he felt it condense and drip down his face. Funny thing. His face was already wet.
“OH MAMA”
Audrey stood silently in the foyer, waiting, her hands clasped in front of her, a pose she hoped looked calm. The true reason she held on to her hands was that if she didn’t she might unconsciously begin to wring them.
George came up the steps, greeting Peters as he came through the doors. His friends were behind him. She heard car doors close. There were voices and footsteps, light chattering, the higher sound of women’s heels tapping up the stone front steps.
She listened to them with a hunger that filled an emptiness inside of her she hadn’t known existed. The voices she heard, all excited and talking at once, reminded her that she was really still alive. They made her feel the same way she felt when she walked outside and down through her gardens.
A woman laughed. There was a joyous sound to it that she hadn’t heard in so long. One of the American men had a deep, resonant voice.
She wondered how she looked. Was her hair parted the way she’d always worn it? On the left, not the right. She had forgotten to check it. She wondered how much gray she was getting. Her gray hair had started showing a year before the war. A hair here and there.
Was her slip showing? Were the seams on her hosiery straight? This relying on others for her appearance made her feel like an invalid, some toddler or someone so feeble she couldn’t dress herself. She despised feeling that way. But no more than she despised herself for the stubborn pride that kept her from saying the words: I need help.
No one asked to help her anymore. She deserved that. She had made them all miserable for ever asking. And even at her weakest moments, she still couldn’t bear to ask them.
“Mother!” George grabbed her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “You look ravishing.”
“My, but that is good to hear. I say that means Eleanore and Bromley aren’t lying to me.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I am not the easiest person in the world to live with. I’m certain there are days when they wish I had lost my voice in the Blitz.” She clung a bit to his arm. “Now tell me, dear. What am I wearing?”
“Blue lace that matches your eyes.”
She smiled. “You are a good son. Should I mention that it’s been too long since you’ve been home?”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“I suppose not. This is terribly exciting. We haven’t entertained since before the war. This old house needs some fresh voices echoing off those high ceilings, and God knows we could all use some laughter around here. Did you know that my sister has no sense of humor?”
“That’s odd, Mother. She says the same about you.”
Audrey laughed, and she heard Eleanore laughing, too. Gerald was coming down to join them the next day. Her sister’s husband hadn’t visited in more than a year. She wasn’t certain Eleanore had seen him in more than a year. The war separated families in terrible ways.
She stood there and met all of George’s friends, listening to each of their voices, measuring their height compared to hers as they stood before her, the touch of their hands, the things that gave some idea of who they were when you couldn’t look into their eyes. You learned some things out of necessity.
But she wanted badly to see their faces.
George then introduced them to Eleanore, while Audrey tried to take the measure of the woman her son had brought to Keighley. Charlotte. The girl was standing in front of her and was terribly nervous.
She could understand that all too well as she held out her hand. “Charlotte. Welcome to Keighley.”
“Thank you for having me. Your home is lovely and the grounds are breathtaking.”
“You like the out-of-doors? Splendid. You and I shall have to take a walk in the gardens later.” She leaned closer and patted her hand. “I promise I won’t eat you alive. Now relax, my dear, I’m truly pleased you are here.”
“Thank you. That is so kind of you,” Charlotte said quietly. “This is my father, Bob Morrison. Come closer, Pop.”
“Mrs. Inskip.” There was that deep voice. He was very tall, and his presence seemed to take up a large space in front of her.
He took her hand in his.
It was a hard hand. Callused.
“My name is Audrey. Please. And I shall call you Bob.”
“Thank you for opening your lovely home to us. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to get out of London for a few days. Haven’t had much chance to see your country since I got here. If your home and the grounds are anything to go by, then I have certainly missed some beautiful country.”
“Yes, well, it is particularly nice when we aren’t at war,” she said dryly. “My son tells me you draw planes.”
She said it at a lull in the conversations, and for a moment there was complete silence.
“Not draw, Mother. Bob is an aerocraft designer.”
“Well, if he designs them, George dear, he must have to draw them on something. Isn’t that right, Bob?”
She could hear his smile when he replied, “Well, Audrey, I’d say you’re right about that. I draw ’em, build ’em, and fly ’em. How about I take you up in one sometime? Ever been in a plane?”
“Good God, no.”
“Your son’s a pilot.”
“It doesn’t run in the family.”
“You might like it.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment because her first reaction was to laugh at the mere thought of climbing into an aeroplane. But she didn’t laugh. Instead she remembered a photo she had seen years before in the newspapers of Amy Johnson, standing by her plane and smiling. The woman looked free and happy. “You think I would like it?”
“You seem to me to be the kind of woman who would like the power of it, Audrey. There’s a great feeling of satisfaction in doing something that seems impossible. I think you would enjoy it. You seem to be a woman who likes a challenge.”
Did she? Perhaps she used to be that kind of woman. The person she was now didn’t want to face any more challenges. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not me. George did tell me that you knew the Wright brothers?”
Before he could answer, she heard George laugh loud and hard and honestly.
Audrey turned suddenly toward the sound of it, a sound she hadn’t heard in a long, long time.
“Charley,” her son warned his friend, still laughing at something she’d said. “You are looking for trouble, my girl.”
Her son was really laughing. There was no bitterness to the sound at all.
She hadn’t meant to ignore Charlotte’s father. She could feel Bob looking at her.
He leaned down and said quietly, “Are you all right? You look haunted.”
“Perhaps I am,” she said quietly. “I just heard something I thought had died.”
“MASQUERADE IS OVER”
For the next day and a h
alf, Keighley was a different place for Audrey. The young people were so full of fun. And she liked Bob Morrison. Gerald, Eleanore, Bob, and she played cards in the evening. It was great fun. Kitty Cassidy would be staying at Keighley, and Eleanore was going with Gerald to London for a few weeks. Everything had been going well until breakfast, when Charley almost bit Skip’s head off and they had a small row.
She gave the girl time to cool down and then asked where she was. Peters told her Miss Charlotte was in the small parlor reading.
Audrey stood in the doorway. “I was wondering if you would help me, dear. I would like to go for a walk. They say it’s lovely outside.”
“Of course.” Charlotte walked over to her.
Audrey put her arm around the girl’s waist. “My, you are tall.”
“Yes, I know. Luckily I don’t have to duck through doorways and I can reach things on the top shelves. But let me tell you, those little blue tea chairs in the parlor are a long way down.”
They laughed and walked outside arm in arm.
“I heard you and Skip this morning.”
“I’m sorry you had to hear.” The tone of her voice said that she was still very upset.
“Would you like to talk about it? I love my son, dear, but I was married for a long time. Men can be quite foolish.”
“I’m just . . . I don’t know. I feel terrible. Skip and I had a lovely day in London a few weeks ago. He bought me a bottle of Ma Griffe. Actually, he lied to me and said he was buying it for you because he knew I wouldn’t accept it. He tricked me. But this morning I heard one of the servants talking. One of them said it was strange because I smelled like Greer.”
“Yes, well, my son is an ass.”
“I believe that was what I called him.”
“You know, Charlotte. It smells quite lovely on you.”
“Thank you, but it doesn’t feel right. Wearing his dead wife’s perfume?”
“Did you know that scents react to the individual? To the skin? Perfumes smell differently on each person. I can tell you, while the scent might be familiar, it doesn’t smell the way it did on Greer.”